by Louise Beech
When Bernadette turned to the clock it was five-forty. The carrots and potatoes were still cold in their pans, the table not set. She had barely twenty minutes until Richard returned. Running to the kitchen, she turned the hob rings on full; he’d grumble if the food was undercooked, but something was better than nothing at all. She poked the chicken with a fork – white, thank goodness – and knew the gravy would only take a moment. She grabbed the cloth and napkins and cutlery and set the table – crisp, symmetrical, perfect. If the vegetables cooked quickly he need never know she had forgotten.
Five-fifty. Soon his car would sound on the gravel, followed by slow footsteps that misled with their languid pace and soft sound. Time to stir the carrots and warm his plate, to put out a glass of ice-cold water.
The leaves are leaving. Bernadette smiled.
Everything was in place.
At six she hovered by the door, the eternal hostess in her own home. Soon it would open and he’d stroll in – no thank you for her efforts – and fold his jacket, put it over the back of the sofa and kiss her cheek without touching it. She sometimes wondered what it would take to get a word out of him at that moment, and was sure that only if something lacked would he notice.
By six-ten he still hadn’t arrived. This had never happened in nine years of marriage. Bernadette often thought he had some control over traffic so that none got in his way. He always took the back streets, he said. Never got caught up in rush hour like other fools. Tonight he must have done.
Bernadette went to the vegetables – they were ready but would go cold if served now and he didn’t turn up within minutes. What to do? Leave them on low and turn the chicken off so it wouldn’t dry out. Yes, she would do that.
Back in the lounge, Bernadette peered anxiously down at the drive, anticipating Richard’s car emerging from the archway of trees. Surely if she willed it he’d come? Was she more concerned that the meal would be ruined or that something terrible had happened to him? It was hard to know.
Push away the anxiety and think calm solutions – her mother’s words. Bernadette would whisper them often, but tonight they had little effect. She tried to picture her mum in the kitchen, flowered apron tied about her thick waist, but just couldn’t see her.
The leaves are leaving. She went to Richard’s desk as though it might present answers. Tonight the damp patch by the wall shelves looked like floating leaves. She heard his voice – You see too much in things.
Was she seeing too much tonight?
At six-thirty she decided to call his mobile phone, something that usually led to a message service. Tonight was no exception. What was the point, she wondered, in having a phone you never answered? At six forty-five she wondered if it was too soon to call the police. Would they laugh at her concern, say they had bigger things to deal with? Of course they would.
At seven Bernadette threw away the burnt carrots and wrapped the chicken in foil. She emptied the warm glass of water and sat in Richard’s chair at the table and considered that he might have left her altogether. Perhaps he had tired of their marriage, changed his mind about loving her.
Over the years his gentle hunger for her had waned, their love becoming more like that between sister and brother, punctuated by rare moments of touch, a pat on the hand when shopping, a shove if she made him laugh. Perhaps he knew if he withdrew his affection entirely she’d die, just as animals do when abandoned, or babies when neglected in those Romanian orphanages.
Eventually at eight-thirty a car engine sounded outside followed by footsteps on the stairs. It was like nothing had changed. Bernadette glanced at the clock as though it was she who had made a mistake. Richard came into the lounge, put his coat over the sofa and looked at the empty table. No almost kiss.
‘Where’s my tea?’ he asked.
Bernadette looked at the table surface as though it might appear. ‘I … well, it…’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Richard frowned. ‘Can’t you adapt to me being a bit late? Can’t I expect to come home to a welcoming meal?’
‘I did. I mean, there was.’ The leaves are leaving. ‘It got ruined. I tried to keep it.’
‘So there’s nothing? I haven’t eaten since one.’
Bernadette couldn’t finalise it with a no. She wanted, really, to ask where he’d been but that might be like insisting the bed should remain on the wall next to a younger, happier couple.
‘Come here, darling,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her into the kitchen, voice and fingers gentle like he wanted to play. They stood by the now cold oven. ‘No matter what time I got in from college or work, my mother had something hot ready. She said we could cope with just about anything in this world if we came home to nourishment, served by hands that love.’
‘I’m sorry you’re hungry,’ said Bernadette. ‘I can make something now.’
‘But it isn’t ready now, is it? It’ll take an hour and by then I’ll be past caring.’
Richard opened the pantry door; chill air escaped in silent relief.
‘When I was small and I messed up,’ said Richard, ‘my mother told me I just needed time to think about what I’d done. In silence, God would come and help me see the right path. She’d send me to sit in her wardrobe. Of course, she was right – the solitude did me good. Calmed me.’ Richard looked at Bernadette, kindly. ‘You need some, just for a while.’ He motioned to the pantry.
Bernadette looked into the dark space. As a child she had hated them. Once, aged nine, she got stuck in an abandoned fridge freezer they found in the woods behind her house. She climbed in and the door shut and locked after her. For what felt like hours she struggled to breathe. It had only been minutes her mother later insisted, but time lasts longer in the dark.
‘You expect me to go in there?’ Bernadette said.
Richard nodded.
‘But I don’t want to,’ she said.
‘You think you don’t,’ he said, ‘but it’s really helpful. You just need to know what it’s like for me to come home and remain calm when I’m hungry and I have a wife who’s here all day and is supposed to love me.’
Sometimes Richard’s words made no sense; yes, he spoke them and they were in the correct order, but it was as though he quoted someone else.
‘In there you’ll be able to see better,’ he said now.
‘I don’t want to,’ Bernadette repeated, childlike.
‘If you don’t, I can’t believe you love me. It’s only for a while and then we’ll watch some TV and have some supper.’
She had once eaten spoiled fish for Richard – was this worse? If she just got it over and done with the evening might settle into normality. They could watch a film, talk about his day.
How bad could it be?
So she walked into the cool space. Richard closed the door and darkness ate her up. Scraping sounds came from the other side and then a clunk. Had he pushed the table up against the door?
How long did he mean by a while?
‘Richard,’ Bernadette called. ‘I don’t like this. I’m really sorry about the food. I am. Just let me come out.’
No answer
Bernadette half sat on a low shelf and her eyes got accustomed to the dimness. She could do this. He’d come for her soon.
What did he want her to think about? That she was an awful wife? That she didn’t love him. But she did – didn’t she?
A scratching sound; had she imagined it? She stood and wrapped her arms about her body. In the small space she felt big, too big. More scratching. Richard was her husband, a man who sometimes doled out curious punishments for seemingly small mistakes, but then brought home a single rose or told her he’d thought about her all day. He’d let her out if she were scared.
‘Richard!’ she cried. ‘I said I’m sorry and I am! Let me out. I feel sick.’
He didn’t come.
Bernadette remembered his mother telling a story one Sunday of how Richard had looked after an injured hedgehog they found in the garden. H
e’d kept it in a cardboard box in the shed and patiently fed it and given it water. When he got up one morning and it had gone, he cried for a week. Richard admitted that he was angry he’d given the creature everything he thought it needed, only to be rewarded with abandonment. Bernadette had kissed him and said that somewhere a very happy hedgehog remembered him. Richard said he hoped she’d never do that to him – that he only liked to have her home all the time so he could give her all she needed.
Bernadette needed him to open the door. She called his name again and then curled up in a ball on the hard floor and imagined Conor there, snuggled up to her, smelling of chalk and chewing gum.
Was he really there?
Yes – she could see him, a silhouette in the dark, feel his sweet breath in her ear and spikes of hair against her cheek.
He said, There’s a mountain in your shoe, but I’ll exchange it for a pebble.
So she took off one of her shoes and held it out, and he took off one of his trainers and did the same. When she took it from him he faded away.
Fluorescent light savaged her. Richard had opened the door.
‘What are you doing down there?’ he asked. ‘Your shoe came off, darling.’
Bernadette got up and looked behind her. Nobody there now, and in her hand a dirty washcloth.
Just like her mother after the fridge freezer incident, Richard said, ‘It wasn’t as long as you think. It was only twenty minutes. Do you think I’m some kind of monster?’
No, he wasn’t the monster. Her inability to leave him was.
*
Reliving the experience has Bernadette curled up in a ball, and Anne has pulled into a lay-by. Cars whizz past like carriages on the Twister at Hull Fair. Anne unclicks her seatbelt and strokes Bernadette’s back to stop her trembling.
‘It’s only because I’ve never talked about it before,’ says Bernadette, embarrassed.
‘Of course,’ says Anne.
‘I’m okay, really I am.’
‘You must have been so scared, especially after your experience as a child. Did he know about that?’
Bernadette tries to think. No, she never told him. Did she think he might use it as a weapon one day? No, Richard was not so calculated. ‘He never knew,’ she says.
‘Has he done that since? The pantry thing, I mean.’
Bernadette shakes her head vigorously. ‘No, it was the only time. There have been strange things over the years. Things he did just one time and never again. Things he was often sorry for, and that made it even harder to hold it against him. He comes out with odd beliefs all the time; things I never even knew he thought and I wonder if they’ve always been inside him, hidden away. He had such a strict childhood. Bound to affect him. I try and keep that in mind.’ She looks at Anne. ‘I do wonder how Conor’s early years will affect him, you know.’
Anne nods. ‘I worry all the time what’s simmering below the surface. Tonight even more so.’ She pauses. ‘Did Richard ever tell you where he was that night?’
‘No, he never mentioned it again.’ Bernadette sits up, looks at her face in the mirror and tidies her unruly hair. ‘He often did that – things happened and he simply forgot them.’
‘Wherever he was, do you think he’s there now?’
Bernadette shrugs. ‘If he is … well, he’s probably back at Tower Rise now. He’ll know I’ve gone.’
‘How do you feel?’ asks Anne.
‘Ready,’ says Bernadette.
31
The Book
*Note to Social Worker, Tracy Fenton
2nd May 2007
I had to write a little note to say how sorry I am that it came to this. I feel very sad about it all, really I do. I’m fully aware that Conor had no intention of bringing harm to Shana, but my mum left the dog to me, and so her death has hit me hard. I stopped fostering some time ago because I found it tough, but I craved it again. It was perhaps too soon after my mother dying, and other private things I’ve been through. I feel terribly bad for the boy, and hope all goes well for him. My son Mark would like to keep writing to him if that’s possible? He got very attached to Conor. I did too. I’m glad we had him. I think I just did it for the wrong reasons. Thank you for your understanding and the kindness of your team.
Very best,
Georgina Caine
Statement of Tracy Fenton Dated: 15/04/2007 Case No – 6879967788
RECENT CHRONOLOGY – CONOR JORDAN (D.O.B. 10/11/2001)
30/03/2007 – Mrs Caine (foster carer) contacted social services asking for support after her family pet dog, Shana, died while with Conor on an unsupervised walk. She told me Conor was told he must always go with Mark (Mrs Caine’s teen son) when walking the dog. He disobeyed on a number of occasions, and on 27/03/2007 at 8 p.m. he escaped out of the back door with Shana. While out, the dog got off the lead and was hit by a car. Shana’s injuries were such that she was put down the following day.
31/03/2007 – Assessment visit. I found Mrs Caine to be distressed about the dog’s death and angry with Conor. She agreed to receive support and grief counselling. Conor appeared in good health and very sorry for the pain he had caused. My concern for Conor feeling guilty about the events is why I arranged further assessment.
01/04/2007 – Request made to Befriend for Life voluntary organisation. Conor is now five so he can have a volunteer friend. I feel he would benefit enormously from such one-on-one friendship. A recent supervised visit with Conor’s mum Frances went sufficiently well that it was planned to arrange another. Frances Jordan expressed a wish to see her son, but said she wasn’t ready for it to be a regular event.
02/04/2007 – Return visit to Mrs Caine’s home, where I spoke with her alone. She is depressed about the death of the dog. While she has grown fond of Conor, she does not feel strong enough for the day-to-day care of a young child anymore. She doesn’t want Conor to feel rejected, but sees no other option than to cease fostering.
04/04/2007 – Application made for new placement.
05/04/2007 – I returned to Mrs Caine’s home and held a meeting with Conor, Mrs Caine and her son Mark, where it was explained to Conor that his move has nothing to do with the dog’s death. He understands he did not cause the events and that Mrs Caine is dealing with some personal issues that mean she can’t care for him anymore. Mrs Caine and Conor hugged. Son Mark hugged Conor for a long time.
06/04/2007 – Conor moved temporarily to Redcliffe Children’s Home.
08/04/2007 – Mrs Richmond from Redcliffe contacted me about Conor’s behaviour. He smashed numerous glasses and plates in the kitchen and would not go to bed.
09/04/2007 – I visited Conor at Redcliffe. He was sorry about smashing the plates and said he could not remember doing so. He was scared he wouldn’t be allowed to see his mum the following day but I assured him he would.
10/04/2007 – Len Coupland (Action for Children volunteer) took Conor on a supervised visit to Doncaster social services where they met his mum Frances for an hour. The session did not go well. Conor swore at his mother and said he would kill her like a dog. She was very distressed. The session was cut short.
11/04/2007 – Assessment determined that visits with Conor’s mum would cease for now. I discussed this with Frances Jordan and she agreed that she could not cope.
ASSESSMENT
Conor’s recent display of anger and violence means he needs one-on-one care from a more specialist foster carer. Until then he is at Redcliffe Children’s Home. Further counselling sessions have been arranged. His school is monitoring his behaviour and have arranged for him to see their counsellor, Kate Sharpe. He has seen his birth mother, Frances Jordan, three times this year, but these supervised visits have been temporarily suspended. The court will decide when these should resume.
Signed: Tracy Fenton Dated: 15/04/2007
*Please include this note from Georgina Caine’s son Mark
To Conor,
I’m really glad they said I can write to you. I know your not really
able to write back to me cos your writing isn’t that amazing and your only five but at least I know you got this and even if you can’t really read it now you can one day. I guess it’ll go in your book thing. I’m real annoyed to be honest. Not at you God no not at my little mate. At my mum and stuff. She shoulda never gone back to doing the fostering stuff if she wasn’t sure. Just so you know she did like you. We all did. But she shouldn’t of got you here and then got so upset over the friggin dog. I loved Shana but dogs aren’t people are they. You mattered more. And I know you never meant for her to get off the lead. I mean she does it all the time. She did it for me a couple of times and I just stopped her running out on the road in time. I know why you went out that night when you shouldn’t of. I tried telling mum you had a crap day. You told me the kids at school was annoying you. One called you Freddy Krueger cos of your burns. So of course you took Shana. She loved you. But she was old anyway. I hope your allowed to watch them Muhammad Ali DVDs wherever you are. I couldn’t give em all to you cos some my dad got me. Maybe one day you’ll get to know who your dad is and he’ll give you cool stuff too. Remember, your the greatest! Shout it out! You left your little Blackie cat here. Did you mean to? It was on my pillow when I came in from college so I guess you did. Made me get such a lump in my throat little mate. I’ll keep it always even if I hide it when my mates come. I kept that picture you did of Ali too. No one would believe a five year old done it. I hope you have a good life little mate. Maybe one day when I’m a world famous boxer (middleweight) you can come and watch me. Shout out I’m the greatest and I’ll know its you! Do you remember when we was sitting on my bed when mum thought you were asleep and we were reading my Ali book and the bit where he said something about the mountains not being the big test or something but it’s the little pebble in your shoe that does your head in. And you said so cute ‘I’ve got the mountain in my shoe.’ You always said such ace stuff. I really wish you could of stayed longer. I won’t ever forget you. I hope you get that mountain out of your shoe little mate I really do.